Part 25.

August, 1940

ATTACK ON THE DORTMUND-EMS CANAL

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

The speaker is a twenty-seven-year-old R.A.F. bomber pilot. A member of one of the squadrons taking part in the exploits which he describes in this broadcast, was this week-end awarded the Victoria Cross for most conspicuous bravery.

Our target on this raid was the old aqueduct carrying the Dortmund-Ems Canal over the River Ems north of Münster. This canal is of great importance to the industrial area of the Ruhr. There is also at this point a new aqueduct, but when that was blown up as a result of previous raids the Germans had diverted all traffic to the old one. The operation had been most carefully planned. Five aircraft detailed for bombing, were to slip in and carry out their work. Two of the five, I am sorry to say, never got back.

Timing was an all-important factor. For a reason I cannot mention it was imperative that the five of us should all attack within a very short period.

At three o'clock in the afternoon we were told that we were going and at six o'clock that evening we were given the details of the operation. Aircraft from two squadrons were taking part. Having been there before, most of us knew the place pretty well. The actual briefing of the crews took about three-quarters of an hour. The whole place was carefully gone through with special maps and plans.

We synchronised our watches and the clocks in the aircraft before starting. Everybody got away right on time. Just after we took off, I saw one of the others in the air, but we soon lost sight of him. The timing had been worked out so as to allow us a ten-minute margin in case we got slightly off our course or had any trouble in getting into the target area. My navigator did a very fine job of work and we arrived at a point north of the target with our ten minutes in hand, so we circled round there for a bit.

Going out, there hadn't been any excitement, but we were not looking for trouble anyway. There were clouds on the way over but they cleared beautifully just on the edge of the target. The moon was about half full. We were relying on the moonlight reflecting on the water to give us our direction for the run up.

We being the last of the five were due to go in at 23.23. Two minutes before that time we came down to about 300 feet. We were then still several miles north of the target. Gradually we lost height as we came along the Canal, following its course all the time.

The navigator was in the nose of the aircraft doing the bomb-aiming. Everything was quiet until we got to the point where the Canal forked just before the two aqueducts. I was doing the run up to this point when the navigator was taking over the directing. We must have gone off a bit to the left because he called out "Right", then immediately after, when we had turned a bit to make the correction, he called out "Steady".

Then, suddenly, everything started at once—searchlights and all the anti-aircraft fire. It was unfortunate from our point of view of course, that the enemy knew pretty well the direction from which we must attack. They had disposed their defences so that they formed a sort of lane through which we had to pass. It seemed to me that they had strengthened these defences a great deal since the first raids.

The searchlights were blinding, and we were flying entirely on the bomb aimer's instructions. I had my head down inside the cockpit trying to see the instruments, but the glare made even that difficult. Our instructions were not to rush it too much because of the need for extreme accuracy. Before we started, the rear gunner had asked if he could fire at something or somebody and he was shooting at the searchlights as we went past.

Almost at the same moment as we bombed I felt a thump and the aircraft lurched to the right. A pom-pom shell had gone through the starboard wing. Then another shell hit the same wing between the fuselage and the engine. They were firing pretty well at point-blank range. It was all over in a few seconds. The navigator called out "O.K. finish". Then we turned away again. The ground defences were still after us but the tracer was dying out a bit by this time.

When we had got away and set course for the base the rear-gunner reported that oil was coming into his cockpit. Then the wireless operator reported that the flaps were drooping. I tried to raise them but found that they wouldn't come up. What had happened was that the hydraulic system had been damaged. We discovered too that the undercarriage indicators were out of action.

Not having landed without flaps before I didn't like to try it that night with a crew aboard, so we cruised around a bit doing a few local "cross countries" for about two and a half hours. We waited till dawn and then we came in all right.


Bristol Blenheim Bombers.

Part 26.

August, 1940

A BOMBER SHOOTS DOWN THREE ENEMY FIGHTERS

BY A SERGEANT WIRELESS OPERATOR AIR GUNNER

The speaker is a sergeant wireless operator air gunner in one of our heavy bomber squadrons, who was recently awarded the Distinguished Flying Medal for gallantry in operations against the enemy. He comes from Derby. He was the rear gunner in a bomber which was attacked by three enemy fighters. In the engagement which ensued, the sergeant shot down two of them and the third broke off the fight. In the official announce¬ment of the award, reference was made to the "high degree'' of skill, com¬bined with clear thinking and quick judgment which he displayed in successfully dealing with this attack.

It was on the way back from a raid in the Ruhr that these three fighters had a go at us. We had been flying for about a quarter of an hour after bombing our target when we were picked up by searchlights. I called up the pilot on the intercommunication set and told him that the lights were dazzling me. They held us right across the town of Wesel, which is to the north of the Ruhr; then, on the other side of the town, the pilot finally got out of them.

There was no anti-aircraft fire, so I was keeping a particularly sharp look-out for fighters. Suddenly, tracer bullets started flying past the turret and I saw three fighters coming in at us from the rear. One was coming in from the starboard quarter and below us; the second was above and practically dead astern; and the third was five or six degrees to port, and he—like the one on the other side—was also attacking from below. To me it seemed that all three were converging on the rear turret.

The one on the starboard quarter seemed to be pretty close, so I had first shot at him. The first burst seemed to hit. If you can get your first burst all right, you can usually guarantee to get your following ones in too, unless things are particularly awkward; so I just kept pumping quick bursts into him—six or seven altogether. He was hitting us too. Some of his shots went through the tail plane, the rudder and the wireless mast, and an explosive shell from his cannon hit the armour plating of my turret. I didn't realise at the time that the shell had actually hit us. I thought it had exploded just outside. Anyway I know the bang deafened me for thirty-six hours afterwards.

The fighter got to within about one hundred or a hundred and fifty yards of the rear turret; then he pulled up like an aircraft pulling out of a dive. He seemed to hang there for a bit and I got in a few more bursts right into the belly of the machine. I saw him turn over and then I swung the turret on to the second fighter which had been closing in all this time, firing his four guns. I could see four streams of tracer coming at us. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the first fighter go down in flames. He exploded in the air or when he hit the deck—I couldn't say which.

This second aircraft was the one which was flying slightly to port. I missed him with the first three bursts, because I was misjudging his speed, but the fourth burst hit him all right and after that I just kept repeating the performance. He was pretty deadly, too, and did further damage to our plane. The navigator got hit in the leg—not badly though—but nobody else was hurt. Then the fighter curled away out of my field of fire and that was the last I saw of him, but the second pilot said he saw him go down out of control.

After this the third enemy fighter came down on us. He closed in to about three hundred yards but wouldn't come any closer. I got a bit fed up with this so I fired a good long burst in his direction and he sheered off. We didn't see him again.

Altogether, I've done just over twenty raids over Germany, but that was the most exciting one of the lot. I've got my twentieth birthday coming along in a few days' time and I hope to be over Germany that night.


A Bristol Blenheim Bomber.

As I said early on in this thread I had this book at one stage but think Ive sold it on ...you can get genuine WW2 RAF books on Ebay for next to nothing and they are soooo athmospheric ...Speaking of unlikely RAF gunner performances ,did you know that a Wellington gunner shot down a Me163 Komet!!!???

Ytareh, do you have any more details on the Wellie shooting down a Komet?

Part 27. Barrage Balloons.

August, 1940

WORK OF A BALLOON UNIT

BY AN AIRCRAFTMAN

"The Commanding Officer congratulates the Flight on the rapidity with which operations were carried out at dawn to-day."

That message was signalled, not so long ago, to the flight headquarters of a Balloon Barrage Squadron on the South-east coast. It was then conveyed personally by the flight commander to the three crews concerned. Their balloons had been shot down at dusk the previous evening, when Jerry had sent over hundreds of planes. The crews had inflated at the break of day, and new balloons were flying well before breakfast, when Jerry came over again. If he had expected to find a gap in the barrage, as I am sure he did, he was sorely disappointed.

The flight was having its "baptism of fire". For months we had been kicking our heels on the Commons and parks of London—flying balloons in all sorts of weather, in frost and snow, in gales and in scorching sunshine—and yet nothing much had happened, a real test of patience if you like. No wonder some of the crews had been "browned off".

Then all at once the war flared up in the South-east. Our flight was ordered to be ready to be off at once. We were mobile again. Twelve months ago we started up the winches and drove out of our centre—yes twelve months ago, all but a week or two, for we auxiliaries were mobilised on August 24th last year. Now we were on the move again. Well, we left our sites on the commons, and before breakfast next morning, Jerry woke to face a balloon barrage on the cliffs—a challenge to repeat his dive bombing if he dared!

Well, in the days I was there he seemed to think dive bombing a trifle too dangerous. But, of course, he was out to destroy the barrage, with his machine-guns, cannons, and bombs. Our days of inactivity had ended. The crews soon had to learn all about improvisation. Sometimes a balloon, when shot down, would fall over the cliff into the sea, and could not be recovered.

There were no elaborate beds. Concrete blocks and ringbolts were a memory of quieter days, but one was made out of heavy baulks of timber, around which were bound wire strops, to which the snatch blocks were fastened. For practical ballooning, service under war conditions, on a cliff edge, with the enemy intervening, is the best training for would-be L.A.C.s.

Only the high Command can form an accurate estimate of the military value of the balloon barrage on that coast. All I know is that the civilians gave full marks to the balloons. Jerry did not stop his bombing raids, but he had to fly above the balloons and was dropping his bombs very wide of the mark. Gunners of the anti-aircraft units were not quite so enthusiastic about us at first. One voiced his complaint to me in these words: "Since your balloon men came we haven't been able to have a smack at Jerry." However, I am glad to be able to say that before we left, the gunner had all the smacks at Jerry that any man could desire, and he made good use of his opportunities. Indeed, co-operation between balloons and anti-aircraft gunners was developed with deadly effect. Some of the Jerry airmen were full of courage—let us acknowledge that. They would fly down at the balloons and run straight into the barrage of anti-aircraft fire, paying for their bravery with their lives. It was certainly brave but seemed so foolish, that I can only conclude that Jerry was desperate to get rid of the balloons. I cannot see that he gained much, for even if one German plane shot down as many as four balloons—really a fantastic supposition, for he could never do it—and lost his plane as a result, the price was immense, for whereas we never suffered casualties in personnel with our lost balloons, Jerry and his crew were either killed or taken prisoner. Which seems to suggest that Hitler has not the slightest regard for the lives of his men.

Balloons, it was found, are not so vulnerable a target as Jerry had hoped. It does seem so easy to hit a balloon with a machine-gun. But in practice it is not so easy to make a balloon a casualty. Jerry could put a whole burst of gunfire into a balloon, but the bullets went in one side, and came out of the other, leaving only the most minute holes. Then when the balloon came down for the daily inspection and topping up, it did not take long to apply patches of fabric. An ample supply of solution and fabric pre¬vented gas escaping, or purity decreasing. Later Jerry tried small cannon shell, most delicately constructed to explode on the slightest impact, but some of these failed to do so. A word of advice: When one falls near your balloon, and fails to explode, surround it with a wall of sandbags and call in the experts to remove it. Don't touch it yourself if you value your skin.

Our transport men did wonderful work. They hauled the trailers backwards and forwards, over fields, along cart-roads, only yards from the cliff edges, never making a mistake, seeing that every site had sufficient gas to deal with every eventuality. Food and rations went out automatically, under front-line conditions.

It was the front-line. We saw much of the Army, the Navy, and the Merchant Service to inspire us. We were proud to wear the uniform of Royal Air Force—colleagues of the brave pilots that fought the Germans almost miles above our balloons. But above all, we were glad that the balloons had justified themselves in fierce aerial warfare. The long hours of training, the practice obtained in the quiet months of waiting, have served their purpose.

In warfare the balloons have stood up to the enemy, and our boys in the crews have proved that they can stand up to every¬thing that Jerry can send over—and get on with the job of helping to win the war.

Of course barrage balloons were tended by women as well as men ...









RedToo

Part 28.

August, 1940

A HUDSON'S ADVENTURES

BY A PILOT OFFICER OF COASTAL COMMAND

I was the pilot of a Lockheed Hudson reconnaissance aircraft of the Coastal Command which attracted the unwelcome attention of seven Messerschmitt 109s over the North Sea. The fact that I'm here to tell you about it now is the best possible tribute to the skill of my crew and the fighting qualities of the American-built aircraft we were flying.

We were patrolling near the Danish coast early in the afternoon, flying just below the clouds at about 2,000 feet, when we sighted two enemy supply ships ploughing along in heavy seas. We decided to attack.

Those of you who have seen Hudson aircraft, or their civil counterpart, the Lockheed 14, would hardly believe that these converted air-liners could do dive-bombing attacks. It's rather like an omnibus in a T.T. race. But they can do it—and quite successfully, as the enemy no doubt realises by now.

So I put the nose down, straight for one of the ships, and we dived 1,000 feet. We released the bombs as we pulled out, and they fell a few yards ahead of the target. I was busy climbing and turning for another attack, and the observer saw the bombs swamp the ship in foam. They exploded just under its bow, and must have damaged it considerably. There was some A.A. fire at us, but it was weak and inaccurate.

We came round again for a repeat performance, and started another dive. Just as we were whistling down nicely, I got a bit of a shock. Coming towards us from the east was a formation of seven enemy fighters—Messerschmitt 109s. They were in "V" formation, and looked to me like a swarm of angry bees out for trouble. I decided that was no place for a solitary reconnaissance aircraft, and increased my dive down to sea level.

The seven fighters closed on us, and then the fun began. My crew immediately went to action stations. I opened up the engines as we switchbacked and skimmed over the waves. Each time we turned, the wing-tips were almost in the water. The Messerschmitts came up, four on one side of us and three on the other. They were a good deal faster than us, and kept flying in turn at our beams, delivering head-on attacks.

Our guns were blazing away, and I remember looking behind me into the smoke-filled cabin to see how things were going. One thing sticks in my mind. It was our carrier-pigeon, slung from the roof in its basket, looking down at all the racket with a very upstage expression. The pigeon seemed to be saying: "I suppose all this is necessary, but please finish it as soon as possible."

However, the fighters were still going strong and so were we! I kept track of their approaches by glancing over my shoulder. Each time a Messerschmitt approached I gave a slight movement to the controls which lifted us out of the line of fire. I could see the cannon shells and bullets zipping into the water, splashing and churning up foam. . . . Not that we were unscathed! Four holes suddenly appeared in the window above my head, and shrapnel and bullets were coming into the cabin pretty steadily. I was flying in my shirt-sleeves, and had hung my tunic in the back of the cabin. When I took it down afterwards there were four nice clean bullet holes through the back, sleeves and side. I was glad 1 hadn't been in it!

From the continuous rattle of our guns, I thought we had sustained no casualties, but after about twenty minutes when I looked back I found that the wireless operator, who is a veteran of the last war, had a bullet wound in the arm. But he carried on until the enemy broke off the engagement.

Up till then, I hadn't had much chance of using my front guns. But a change in tactics by the Nazi fighters gave me a chance of getting in some bursts. The seven Messerschmitts weren't get¬ting much change from side-on attacks, so they began to come from ahead. That was just what I wanted. By turning my Hudson at them I got home several hundred rounds.

By this time we were climbing up towards the scattered clouds, where the fighters still continued their attacks and turned the battle into a grim sort of hide and seek. At last we shook them off, and were able to take stock of our position. The fight had then lasted just over half an hour.

The wireless operator came to have his wound dressed by my navigator, and the rear gunner asked permission to leave his turret. When he came forrard we found he had been wounded in the leg and, like the wireless operator, had carried on without saying anything about it.

They had seen most of the fight, and as their wounds were being bandaged I shouted above the noise of the engines, "Any luck?" The gunner held up one finger, then pointed straight downwards and grinned. Then he held up another and pointed slantingly down. This meant that one Messerschmitt had gone down for certain, and he had seen another gliding down to the sea apparently out of control. The wireless operator confirmed our successes.

We had a long slog back to England—about two hours in a damaged aircraft. In spite of the hard tousing I had given the engines they were behaving perfectly, but I knew we would have trouble with the undercarriage. Sure enough, when we tried to put it down to land, it would only go halfway. We signalled to the aerodrome's staff that we were going to make an emergency landing. I sent all the crew to the back of the machine to ease the trim. Then we came in. The wheels supported us a little, and we landed quite sweetly. The wounded members of my crew are O.K.


A Hudson’s pigeon getting ready for action.

Cracking stories

Keep it up RedToo

Part 29.

August, 1940

A FIFTEEN-MINUTE PARACHUTE DROP

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT

I want to tell you of a fight a few days ago, off the South Coast, not only because of the two Messerschmitt fighters which I am very pleased to have sent into the sea, but because of the parachute descent afterwards—my first—and one of the most enjoyable experiences in my life.

It was a lovely evening and the wind was warm about us as we passed through the slip-stream of our aircraft, to our cockpits. We were to patrol the coast at 10,000 feet and we reached the patrol line at this height in seven minutes—I could see for miles and a thin layer of cloud 1,000 feet above us, shaded our eyes from the sun.

We were flying east when three enemy aircraft were seen flying west, in the clouds overhead. I told our leader that I would climb with my flight above the clouds and investigate. As I did this, twelve Messerschmitt 109 fighters emerged from the clouds. Still climbing, I made for the sun and turned and gave the order for my flight to break up and attack. In a moment, our battle began—our six Hurricanes against the enemy's twelve.

The eighteen aircraft chased round and round, in and out of the cloud. I chose my first opponent. He seemed to be dreaming and I quickly got on to his tail and gave him a short burst which damaged him. I flew in closer and gave him a second dose. It was enough. He dived, out of control, and I followed him down to 6,000 feet. There I circled for a minute or two and watched him dive vertically into the calm sea. There was only the tell-tale patch of oil on the water to mark where he had disappeared.

I opened my hood for a breath of fresh air and looked about the sky. There was no sign of either the enemy or my own flight. I was alone, so I climbed back into the cloud which was thin and misty. Three Messerschmitts, flying in line astern, crossed in front of me—so close that I could see the black crosses on their wings and fuselage. I opened fire on number three in the formation. We went round and round in decreasing circles—as I fired. I was lucky again. I had the pleasure of seeing my bullets hit him. Pieces of his wings flew off. Black smoke came from just behind his cockpit. He dived and I fired one more burst at him, directly from astern. We were doing a phenomenal speed—then my ammunition gave out—just as the other two Messerschmitts attacked me. I twisted and turned, but they were too accurate. I could hear the deafening thud of their bullets. Pieces of my aircraft seemed to be flying off in all directions: my engine was damaged and I could not climb back to the cloud where I might have lost my pursuers. Then came a cold stinging pain in my left foot. One of the Jerry bullets had found its mark, but it really did not hurt. I was about to dive to the sea and make my escape, low down, when the control column became useless in my hand. Black smoke poured into the cockpit and I could not see. I knew that the time had come for me to depart.

Everything after this was perfectly calm. I was at about 10,000 feet, but some miles out to sea. I lifted my seat, undid my strap and opened the hood. The wind became my ally. A hand—actually the slip-stream catching under my helmet—seemed to lift me out of the cockpit. It was a pleasant sensation. I was in mid-air—floating down so peacefully—in the cool breeze. I had to remind myself to pull my ripcord and open my parachute. When the first jerk was over I swung like a pendulum. This was not so pleasant, but I soon settled down and I was able to enjoy a full view of the world below—the beach, some miles away, with soldiers—and the long lines of villas in a coastal town. There was no sensation of speed. But the ripples on the water became bigger—the soldiers on the beach became nearer. I had one minute of anxiety. As I floated down, one of the Messerschmitts appeared. The pilot circled round me and I was just a little alarmed. Would he shoot? Well—he didn't. He behaved quite well. He opened his hood, waved to me and then dived towards the sea and made off towards France.

The wind was still friendly. It was carrying me in towards the beach. I took out my cigarettes and lit one, with my lighter—without any difficulty. Ages seemed to pass. I threw away the cigarette as I came nearer and nearer to the coast. I could hear the all-clear sirens—and, passing over the houses on the sea front, I could see the people coming out of their shelters— people looking up at me. I had descended to about 1,000 feet. I began to sway a little and I could hear my parachute flapping—like the sound of a sail in a small boat. The soldiers' faces were quite clear, but I must have looked English, even at one thousand feet—which was comforting.

For the first time since the enemy pilot circled around me, I became anxious. Was I to end my escapade by being banged against a seaside villa? It did not seem possible that I could reach the fields beyond. The journey ended in a cucumber frame—after I had pushed myself free of a house, with my foot.

And now I come to a pleasant recollection—in spite of my foot and my painful landing. The people in that seaside town were wonderful. A woman appeared with a cup of tea—in one second. Then a policeman with a whisky and soda. I drank the whisky and soda first—then the tea. A blanket appeared—then the ambulance. I remember one amusing incident as I was lifted into the ambulance.

A little boy of seven, came over to me with cigarettes and he said, "Good luck, sir. When I grow up, I'm going to be an airman too."


A parachute descent.

Part 30.

August, 1940

FIVE ENEMY AIRCRAFT IN ONE DAY

BY A SERGEANT PILOT

The story of a sergeant pilot of a Fighter Command Spitfire squadron who shot down five enemy aircraft in three air battles on one day. On the same day fifty raiders altogether were destroyed, and two days later the sergeant pilot brought down two more. He is a north countryman— Yorkshire born and bred. His father lives in Harrogate.

Saturday was certainly a grand day. It started, as most days for fighter pilots start—with the dawn. We were up at a quarter past four. I felt in my bones that it was going to be a good day. We were in the air just after five o'clock. Shortly before half-past eight we were in the air again looking for enemy raiders approach¬ing the South Coast from France. We saw three or four waves of Junkers 88, protected by a bunch of Me. 109s above them. We were flying at 15,000 feet, between the bombers and the fighters. The fighters did not have much chance to interfere with us before we attacked the bombers. I attacked one of the waves of bombers from behind and above. I selected the end bomber of the forma¬tion which numbered between fifteen and eighteen. I gave this Junkers a burst of fire lasting only two seconds, but it was enough. It broke away from the formation, dived down, and I saw it crash into the sea.

I then throttled back so that I would not overtake the whole formation. I was getting quite a lot of cross-fire from the other bombers as it was, though none of it hit me. If I had broken away after shooting down the first bomber, I should have exposed myself to the full force of the enemy formation's cross-fire, so I throttled back and stayed behind them. I didn't have time to select another bomber target, for almost immediately an Me. 109 came diving after me. As I had throttled back the Me. overshot me. He simply came along and presented me with a beautiful target. He pulled up about 150 yards in front of me, so I pressed the gun button for two seconds. He immediately began to smoke, and dived away. I followed him this time and saw him go straight into the sea. When the sky was clear of German planes, we went home for breakfast. We had a nice "bag" in that combat before the other Germans escaped.

As a matter of fact, I didn't get any breakfast at all. I only had time for a hot drink before we were ordered to stand by again and by half-past eleven that morning we were patrolling the South-east Coast. We were attacked by half a dozen Me. 109s, and, of course, we broke up to deal with them individually. I had a dog-fight with one, both of us trying to get into position to deliver an attack, but I outmanoeuvred him. I got on his tail, and he made off for the French coast as hard as he could go. The fight started at 10,000 feet, and we raced across the Channel like mad. As we were going like that, I saw one of our fellows shoot down another Me. 109, so I said to myself: "I must keep the squadron's average up and get this one." I didn't fire at him until we were actually over the French coast. Then I let him have it— three nice bursts of fire lasting three seconds each, which, as you may imagine, is an awfully long time! I started that final burst at 8,000 feet, and then he began to go down, and I followed until I saw him crash into a field in France. Then I went back home without seeing any enemy at all. I carefully examined my Spitfire when I landed, certain that I must have been hit some¬where. But, no, not a mark. It was very satisfactory.

Our third show began just before four o'clock in the afternoon. We were flying towards the Thames estuary at 5,000 feet, when we saw anti-aircraft shells bursting in the sky to the north-east. We changed course, and began to climb for the place where we thought we should meet the enemy. We did. They were flying at 12,000 feet—twenty JU.s 88 in tight formation accom¬panied by about twenty Me.s 109 above them. They were flying towards the London area and we could see the balloons shining in the sun. When we spotted the fighters we pulled up towards them. I got under one Me. 109 and gave him two bursts. Smoke started to pour out of him, and he went down out of control. Suddenly, tracer bullets started whizzing past my machine. I turned sharply, and saw an Me. 109 attacking one of our pilots. I turned on the attacker and gave him a quick burst. Immediately he began to slow down and the aircraft began to smoke. I pressed the gun button a second time, and the Me. caught fire. I fired a third time, and the whole machine became enveloped in flames and pieces began to fly off. Finally, as it went down, more pieces came off, all burning. As it tumbled down towards the Thames estuary it was really a bunch of blazing fragments instead of a whole aircraft. It was an amazing sight. That was my fifth for the day, and the squadron's ninety-ninth! The squadron brought the score over the century the next day, as a matter of fact. The squadron has damaged a lot more, of course.

There is a lot of luck about air fighting—by which I mean it's a matter of luck whether you get into a good scrap or not. I was right through the Dunkirk show, and didn't get a thing. But recently I seem to have been lucky. These fights are over so quickly that unless you are there right at the beginning, you are liable not to see anything at all. None of the fights on Saturday lasted more than five minutes each.



A Battle of Britain pilot.
Leutnant Franz von Werra. Adjutant of II./JG 3. Later captured by the British and became famous as the only German airman to make a ‘home run’. The epic story of his escape across Canada and the U.S.A. was the subject of a film starring Hardy Kruger. Shown here with Simba, the Gruppe’s mascot.

Part 31

September, 1940

BOMBING BERLIN

BY A SQUADRON BOMBING LEADER

This officer joined the R.A.F.V.R. on May 2nd, 1939, being called up on September 1st, 1939. He took a navigation course until Christmas, 1939, up to that time being a Leading Aircraftman. He then went for a bombing and gunnery course. Commissioned on the completion of this course, he was given intensive training in navigation and bombing. He was posted to his squadron in the middle of June this year. He has made six operational trips as navigator and bomb-aimer. His official title is squadron bombing leader, and his duties include that of maintaining the bomb aimers in efficiency and knowledge of all new ideas and improvements.

I made my first trip to Berlin the other night. Before that I had been over France a few times, when the Jerries were walking through, and I had made the trip to the Ruhr and to Milan. Berlin was a job I really wanted. Of course, I had no real say in the matter at all: it was just luck. The choice lies with the commanding officer. Anyway, I struck lucky. Lucky, because I am not a regular member of any particular crew. So far I haven't flown in the same crew twice. That happens, as I am the squadron bombing leader, and change about a great deal.

That afternoon, we were given our targets and general instructions, and between the briefing and the time of take off we worked out the details. Soon after dinner we took off, just as day was giving way to night. The light was failing fast as we started on our six hundred and fifty mile outward journey, and by the time we had crossed the odd two hundred miles of sea and reached the enemy coast it was dark.

We had a favourable wind and saw nothing for the hour and three-quarters that we spent crossing the sea. There was a lot of cloud below us, which began to clear as we approached the Dutch coast. There we ran into intense anti-aircraft fire. Heavy bursts in the distance at about twelve thousand feet, with continual flashes, which looked like lightning. It wasn't reaching us and we wondered who was getting the benefit of it. Other aircraft were ahead and it looked as though the gunners were concentrating on them.

From then on, there was nothing at all, until we were over Emden, when searchlights began to show, and to hunt about in the sky. They failed to locate us, and we went round them, dodging trouble.

The captain took over from the second pilot. It is not a difficult operation, changing over, although some people seem to believe that it is like rocking a canoe. All that happens is that the second pilot gets the aircraft dead straight, flying level, slips out of his seat, and the captain moves in.

The rest of the run to Berlin was uneventful. We were there about twenty minutes before midnight.

Searchlights came on, quite a lot of them, and flak. There seemed to be a solid rectangle of brilliant light in the sky. It wasn't coming our way—then, but was making things as difficult as possible for the others who had left a quarter of an hour earlier and were already over the target.

When our estimated time of arrival suggested that we should have arrived, we headed for the searchlights and dropped a flare to see what was below us. We spotted a river, and I had a look at the map to see if it was the one we wanted: there are several stretches of water there. While we were trying to identify it, we were picked up by searchlights at seven thousand feet. They held us, and we moved pretty rapidly, taking very violent avoiding action to get away. We got away, and again dropped flares to pin-point our position. In fact we repeated that operation several times and were again caught by searchlights and heavy anti aircraft fire. Some of the bursts came too close to us to be comfortable, but we thought we had escaped. I know that we flew through big black balls of smoke that looked like balloons. They were only smoke.

Cloud made it hard to identify the target, and gave us a jolt once. We thought a squadron of aircraft was flying over us.

There were silhouettes in the light, very clear and very sharp. They were our own shadows thrown on to the clouds by the searchlights. A very strange sight, and a very strange feeling, that.

For an hour and a half we flew around trying to make sure. Of course we could have unloaded on Berlin at any time we liked: but—as you know we don't do indiscriminate bombings.

The exact spot still eluded us and the captain decided to come round the searchlights and make a low level attack. So we descended to one thousand feet—over London that would be a few hundred feet above St. Paul's.

We saw fires to the east, caused by other aircraft, and followed the river towards them to come over the target area again, and into a curtain of flak of all colours and descriptions.

We reached the fire, which was now blazing well, and easily recognised the Siemens-Schuckert Works, with railway sidings alongside. We dropped a long stick of high explosives and incendiaries at a little over one thousand feet.

The searchlights were nearly horizontal by now, and the anti aircraft fire really hot. We could imagine the gunners frantically turning the handles, trying to get their guns to bear on us. Streams of green tracer shells were hosepiping over us as we took evasive action to get away from the target. The captain put the nose down, and we came well below that one thousand feet.

The rear-gunner had meanwhile reported the bursts of our bombs, with fires and explosions in the works as a result. There was a good fire going in the centre, and we had bombed alongside it. Some of our heavy stuff must have landed on the railway. We couldn't miss from that height.

All we could do was done, so we climbed through the clouds to 12,000 feet, and turned for home with the engines running smoothly.

Coming home, there was not much opposition, and the crew had a time for a little relaxation—with hot coffee and biscuits—and perhaps forty winks for some.

The wireless operator was exploring the fuselage and came forward again with a wide grin and his hands full of pieces of aluminium to tell us tales of a large series of holes we had collected over Berlin.

Against the wind we made the North Sea, and flew into the dawn. The wireless operator grew excited again, pointing out quite a large hole in the wing.

Reaching home, the captain spoke to the ground and wished them good morning. We touched down after ten and a quarter hours in the air, had a look at the machine, and found enough holes to give the riggers a spot of work for a while. Nothing had struck a vital part: but another six inches and they would have got the petrol tanks, and then we might have come down somewhere else.

That was that. Then we had our interrogation on the trip; after which we were ready for breakfast and bed. It was a good twenty-four hours since we had been there, but we had had an enjoyable trip between times.


A Vickers Wellington Bomber.

Part 32.

September, 1940

BOMBING BERLIN AGAIN

BY A FLYING OFFICER OF A HEAVY BOMBER SQUADRON

The speaker is a flying officer in one of our heavy bomber squadrons. He describes the remarkable scene which followed the bombing of a large gasworks during a recent raid on military objectives in Berlin.

Before I describe this particular raid I would just like to mention something which gave us in the R.A.F. one of the biggest laughs we've had since the war started. A few days ago we had sent round to us an extract from an Italian paper which made the following remarkable statement: "The R.A.F. succeeded in bombing Germany and Italy by offering to colonial mercenary pilots the following bonuses in respect of every night raid—£500 over Germany. £600 over Italy."

Last night I carried out my twentieth raid over Germany, so at that rate of pay I should now have tucked away in the bank the nice little sum of £10,000. One can only wonder why it is that any Italians should be asked to believe that any pilot in any Air Force—their own not excluded—should need such a fantastic inducement to do what has now come to be regarded, by the R.A.F. at any rate, as a more or less routine job of work. We pasted the extract up on the notice-board in the officers' mess, with a big red arrow pointing to it. It really was too good to be missed.

But if you want a true picture of things in the R.A.F. Bomber Squadron, let me tell you what happened the first time the squadron I belong to was detailed for a raid on Berlin.

The wing commander who commands the squadron called in during the afternoon in the usual way for "briefing"—that's to say, to give us all the details of the operation. Half the squadron, he said, would be on Berlin, the remainder on other targets in Germany. He asked if there were any captains and crews who had any particular preference for Berlin. Every man operating that night wanted to go, though the wing commander decided that the fairest way to arrange things was to work it out in order of seniority. Some of the chaps started shooting a line about their seniority—trying to pull a bit of a fast one, in fact—but that didn't cut any ice and the whole thing was properly worked out by the two flight commanders. We have an "A" Flight and a "B" Flight.

In the end, however, everybody went, because later in the afternoon, we were taken off the other targets, and all put on to Berlin. I think that most pilots if they were asked for their opinion on the Berlin raid, would say that given moderately decent weather they were quite normal trips. They take longer, of course, than some of the other raids, but distance alone doesn't really make much difference so long as the aircraft can stand up to it as easily as ours do and as long as you have got well-trained captains and crews. In fact, it's precisely the sort of job that we've been trained to do.

Well, how about those gasworks in Berlin. If one's to judge from results actually seen, I suppose it's my most successful trip so far. As a matter of fact, it was the first time I've been to Berlin, though I have visited a good many other places in Germany.

We got a certain amount of A.A. fire on the way out—but nothing remarkable. By the time we arrived there were already a lot of our aircraft buzzing about and flares were dropping all over the place. One could pick out streets and railways, small parks and places like that.

Over the city, the guns were letting off at us pretty heavily, but we were not hit. We found our targets without any difficulty. It was a gas-generating plant only a few miles from the centre of Berlin. Someone else had started two fires in the N.E. corner of it and we ran up from west to east. My second pilot was flying the aircraft and I was doing the bomb aiming. By this time, we were down to 8,000 feet, and I could clearly see the outside of the works.

Perhaps I ought just to explain here, very briefly, how the bombing is done. The bomb aimer is lying flat on his face in the nose of the aircraft looking down through a large glass panel which takes the place of the floor. Allowances have to be made on the bomb-sight for the speed and direction of the wind, the height and speed of the aircraft, and so on; then, when the target comes in line with the pointers on the fore and back sight, the bomb aimer presses the firing switch—and down they go.

On this occasion, when the bombs burst, there were four huge explosions across the works. I think that the first one must have hit a gasometer, as far as I can see; there was no other explanation for what happened. There was a violent eruption upwards and outwards. It reminded me of a scene on the films.

The first four large explosions were followed by series of smaller explosions. Two huge fires started and great tongues of flame leaped up—I estimated that they must have been rising to 1,500 feet—then dense clouds of smoke began to pour out. It was the most terrific sight I have ever seen. The bombs had fallen about fifty yards apart. Almost immediately the fires and explosions seemed to link up and for a distance of 200 yards through the works there was this great mass of flames.

Next I saw our incendiaries fall on the western edge of the plant. They take longer to get down than the heavy bombs. What part of the works they hit, I don't know, but I could see large clusters of brilliant-coloured flashes on the ground. We circled round and watched the fires blazing up. The rear gunner, I remember, shouted: "Oh Boy, it's terrific." The whole of Berlin must have seen them lighting up the sky.

In the light of the explosions I had seen, momentarily, two long buildings and a tower. Then the aircraft passed over and I could not see any more from the front, but the rear-gunner said he saw one of the buildings collapse in flames.

By the time we had circled round twice, the guns were getting a little too close and I gave orders to set course for base. From the beginning of the run-up the whole thing took only five or six minutes. About a quarter of an hour after we had left, we could still see the reflection of the fire in the sky and about this time we made out another terrific explosion. We were not quite certain whether that was somebody else bombing or whether it was the result of our attacks. Well, that's the story of one aircraft on one raid on Berlin. One is not always so successful, of course, but it may give you some idea of the sort of work the R.A.F. is doing over there.


The bomber sets out. Left to right: Observer, Wireless Operator, Rear Gunner, Second Pilot, Pilot Captain


Operating the bomb-selector panel.

Part 33.

September, 1940

SINKING A U-BOAT

BY A SQUADRON LEADER OF THE ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE

A dramatic incident in the war at sea was the recent sinking of a German U-boat and the capture of her crew by a Sunderland flying-boat of the Coastal Command. The story is told by the captain of the flying-boat.

Well, I was ordered to carry out a patrol—an anti-submarine patrol—in a certain position in the Atlantic and my take-off was to be very early in the morning. Whilst I was taxi-ing out I was sent a message to say that a steamer had been torpedoed in a certain position. I was ordered to proceed to that position and search for the submarine and if I saw it, of course, to bomb it. I took off and flew for some hours in the dark. Just as dawn was breaking we found the ship. She was about three miles away. She had been torpedoed aft and was still afloat. I circled round her. She appeared to be in no sort of difficulty and a destroyer was nearby. As my orders were not to waste any time, I then started to look for the submarine.

When I was about thirty miles from the steamer, I sighted a disturbance in the water about five miles away. It looked like a round patch with a wake leading up to it, and I felt pretty sure that it was the enemy submarine. She must have seen me at the very moment I saw her because she did a crash dive. I saw the swirl and prepared to attack it. I turned towards it and carried out a dive at a shallow angle, and released four bombs in a stick. The bombs fell on to the swirl on the surface and overlapped the disturbed water and formed what we call a "tight pattern"— (much the same as good grouping with a rifle). I then did a circuit with the object of coming back to make another attack. During the circuit I saw the submarine break surface apparently at a very steep angle by the bow, giving the impression that she had blown all her tanks in a rush to get to the surface. By the time I had turned the submarine had completely surfaced and I immediately carried out a second attack.

I did the second attack at an angle, slanting across the sub¬marine from the quarter to the bow and dropped another four bombs in a low-level attack. The submarine at the time was still moving forward very slowly under the impulse given by her rush to the surface. Immediately after the second four explosions she swung round violently to starboard and practically stopped. The crew rushed out of the conning-tower and lined up on deck aft of the conning-tower away from the gun. This obviously indicated surrender. I saw that the submarine was settling down, first of all evenly fore and aft, but soon, when the decks were almost awash, she adopted a sharp angle and settled down very quickly by the stern. Now, no submarine would willingly go down by the stern in the normal way of diving. So I knew that this was no trick to fool us. She was definitely sinking. The bow rose right out of the water and she sank. The whole thing only took two minutes from the time of the second attack.

As the submarine began to sink under them, the crew jumped into the water. We were quite low and circled round them when they realised the submarine was sinking. There was obviously a wild rush to get overboard. They were all wearing life-jackets and they bunched together in the water so as not to get lost.

Whilst all this was happening, one of my crew sighted an escort vessel in the distance and I signalled it to hurry to the scene and pick up the submarine survivors. I then directed the escort vessel by diving on the people in the water. At about seven o'clock the ship was picking up the survivors so that the submarine's crew were only in the water about three-quarters of an hour. We flew round them all the time and watched them. I learnt afterwards that forty-one survivors had been picked up. I then returned to my base about 400 miles away.


Heavy bombs in the racks of a Sunderland.



My favourite picture of a Short Sunderland.

Part 34 – in competition with Oleg now!

September, 1940

BOMBING THE INVASION PORTS

BY A PILOT OFFICER OF A HEAVY BOMBER SQUADRON

A pilot officer in a heavy bomber squadron of the R.A.F. describes an attack on Ostend, one of the enemy's so-called "Invasion Ports" on all of which our bombers have recently been delivering heavy blows night after night.

In point of fact, these raids on the Channel ports occupied by the enemy are quite the simplest job of work we have had to do since bombing operations started; a quiet trip there and back. A couple of nights ago, for instance, when we bombed the dock area at Ostend it took us only one hour and fifty-five minutes from the time we set off until we got back to base; that was a record trip for myself and the crew.

Thirty miles out to sea from Ostend we saw a red glow in the sky. The front-gunner spotted it first and drew my attention to it. We were flying then just over the top of a thin layer of cloud. When we came out beyond this cloud we saw the coast-line for the first time, and from then onwards we could see the fires burning in the dock area at Ostend good and hearty.

Over the land the weather was perfect. The moonlight was so bright that, even from six miles away, I could make out buildings standing out against these fires in the darkness and I could see long stretches of sand on the foreshore.

We made a run straight over the middle of the dock. My observer was doing the bombing and I was flying the aircraft. He checked up and made quite sure that we were on the right target. As a matter of fact, there was no mistaking it. First of all, there was this long straight coast-line; then we identified an enormous kidney-shaped dock—it looked like a huge kidney from the air—which they call the Nouveau Bassin de Chasse. Having decided that we were O.K., we made our first bombing run. There's a large railway siding near the main wet dock and we were after that. We could see the siding and the docks plainly; in fact it was just like bombing on the practice raids.

As we started bombing, I remember noticing the time by the clock on my instrument panel. It was twelve minutes past one. The bomb aimer hit the railway siding with his first stick and the bombs started more fires, with all sorts of coloured explosions—red and yellow and blue, but mostly red—breaking out all over the place. I should say we must have got an ammunition train.

We did a left-hand circuit and were having a look to see what was going on before making our second run, when there was the most colossal explosion. It gave the effect of a gigantic mushroom, that's to say, it was thin at the bottom, but as they rose higher and higher, the flames and smoke spread out in a great circle. This column of fire must have come up to about 800 feet. We were flying at 5,000 feet at the time, and the force of the explosion threw the aircraft up fifty feet. After we bombed, we got a certain amount of fire from flak ships.

By this time fires seemed to be spreading all over the place. The moon, as I said, was shining brightly; in fact it was almost like daylight. One couldn't see anything of some part of the docks, though, because they were enveloped in a mass of fire. I think my bomb aimer and the rear gunner were feeling rather happy about it all. You see, both of them live in South London and had had their homes destroyed.

We went in again, to make our second run up this time. Again we were aiming for the rail sidings and our second stick of bombs fell towards the northern end, causing further explosions and fires. It was then eighteen minutes past one—one minute after we dropped our first bomb. We hung about, circling, for another five minutes.

The fires were still burning furiously and all the while coloured explosions were breaking out. One thing that struck me particularly was that the town itself, except for a few houses on the edge of the railway side appeared to be untouched. There were no fires there, nor was there any indication of it having been bombed, the fires were all in the dock area. We saw a lot of recognition signals being let off in the air—presumably from German fighters—but we never saw anything of the fighters themselves. Having flown round twice, we made out to sea, heading for home, and, coming back, the rear gunner said he could see the fire reflected in the sky forty to fifty miles away. As I said before, the whole trip there and back—including identifying and attacking the target and having a good look round after we'd bombed took only one hour fifty-five minutes.

Everyone who went out from our squadron found his objective and dropped his bombs; no one brought any back.



Not Ostend but invasion barges in Boulogne Harbour.

Part 35.

September, 1940

AIR BATTLE OVER LONDON

BY A SQUADRON LEADER

The story of a squadron leader who led his squadron of Hurricanes in one of the great air battles over London during which the record number of 185 German aircraft were shot down. Londoners were heartened to see the Dorniers and Messerschmitts come tumbling out of the sky, and must have wondered what it was like "upstairs". This squadron leader will tell them. Before the war he was an estate agent in Northumberland, having joined an auxiliary squadron in 1934. They were in Trance from November until the middle of May, and during that time his old squadron shot down no fewer than seventy-eight enemy aircraft. He was recently posted to command his present squadron. He has won the D.F.C.

At lunchtime on Sunday, my squadron was somewhere south of the Thames estuary behind several other squadrons of Hurricanes and Spitfires. The German bombers were three or four miles away when we first spotted them. We were at 17,000 feet and they were at about 19,000 feet. Their fighter escort was scattered around. The bombers were coming in towards London from the south-east, and at first we could not tell how many there were. We opened our throttles and started to climb up towards them, aiming for a point well ahead, where we expected to contact them at their own height.

As we converged on them I saw there were about twenty of them, and it looked as though it were going to be a nice party, for the other squadrons of Hurricanes and Spitfires also turned to join in. By the time we reached a position near the bombers we were over London—central London, I should say. We had gained a little height on them, too, so when I gave the order to attack we were able to dive on them from their right.

Each of us selected his own target. Our first attack broke them up pretty nicely. The Dornier I attacked with a burst lasting several seconds began to turn to the left away from his friends. I gave him five seconds and he went away with white smoke streaming behind him.

As I broke away and started to make a steep climbing turn I looked over the side. I recognised the river immediately below me through a hole in the clouds. I saw the bends in the river, and the bridges and idly wondered where I was. I didn't recognise it immediately, and then I saw Kennington Oval. I saw the covered stands round the Oval, and I thought to myself: "That is where they play cricket." It's queer how, in the middle of a battle, one can see something on the ground and think of something entirely different from the immediate job in hand. I remember I had a flashing thought—a sort of mental picture—of a big man with a beard, but at that moment I did not think of the name of W. G. Grace. It was just a swift, passing thought as I climbed back to the fight.

I found myself very soon below another Dornier which had white smoke coming from it. It was being attacked by two Hurricanes and a Spitfire, and it was still travelling north and turning slightly to the right. As I could not see anything else to attack at that moment, I went to join in. I climbed up above him and did a diving attack on him. Coming in to attack I noticed what appeared to be a red light shining in the rear gunner's cockpit, but when I got closer I realised I was looking right through the gunner's cockpit into the pilot and observer's cockpit beyond. The red light was fire.

I gave it a quick burst and as I passed him on the right I looked in through the big glass nose of the Dornier. It was like a furnace inside. He began to go down, and we watched. In a few seconds the tail came off, and the bomber did a forward somersault and then went into a spin. After he had done two turns in his spin his wings broke off outboard of the engines, so that all that was left as the bla2ing aircraft fell was half a fuselage and the wing roots with the engines on the end of them. This dived straight down, just past the edge of a cloud, and then the cloud got in the way and I could see no more of him.

The battle was over by then. I couldn't see anything else to shoot at, so I flew home. Our squadron's score was five cer¬tainties—including one by a sergeant pilot, who landed by parachute in a Chelsea garden.

An hour later we were in the air again, meeting more bombers and fighters coming in. We got three more—our squadron, I mean. I started to chase one Dornier which was flying through the tops of the clouds. Did you ever see that film "Hell's Angels"? You remember how the Zeppelin came so slowly out of the cloud. Well, this Dornier reminded me of that.

I attacked him four times altogether. When he first appeared through the cloud—you know how clouds go up and down like foam on water—I fired at him from the left, swung over to the right, turned in towards another hollow in the cloud, where I expected him to reappear, and fired at him again. After my fourth attack he dived down headlong into a clump of trees in front of a house, and I saw one or two cars parked in the gravel drive in front. I wondered whether there was anyone in the doorway watching the bomber crash.

Then I climbed up again to look for some more trouble and found it in the shape of a Heinkel 111 which was being attacked by three Hurricanes and a couple of Spitfires. I had a few cracks at the thing before it made a perfect landing on an R.A.F. aerodrome. The Heinkel's undercarriage collapsed and the pilot pulled up, after skidding fifty yards in a cloud of dust. I saw a tall man get out of the right-hand side of the aircraft, and when I turned back he was helping a small man across the aerodrome towards a hangar.


Pilots studying the day’s operations.

On the related note, German weekly newsreel 22 June 1940 (didn't want to open new thread for it, its sorta related)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v...gg&NR=1&feature=fvwp

- Great footage of the battleships Scharnhorst and Gneisenau at sea, operation of catapult launch seaplane and the sinking the HMS Glorious and some other vessels
- Lots of combat footage of the Battle of France, a forced river crossing, attack on the Maginot line, Panzer attack and some knocked out French tanks
- Uncle Dolpho and Benito meet, they hug, kiss, gossip and discuss fashion
- French sign the armistance
- Happy jackboot day in Paris
- Colossal amount of Swastikas, bells ringing, then yet more swastikas

Great footage at any rate.

Redtoo, Redtoo - Gosling, Gosling... Testing Comms

Hi Redtoo

Are you who I think you are....?

If so, its been far too long and let me know how things are....

I think this calls for a request for permission to sing Sir...

Gos

Thanks Kurfurst. Those German vids are excellent. I used to have a site bookmarked where you could download pretty much the whole lot ('39 to '45) I think as wav files. But I've lost it ... I'll have to have another search.

Gosling616. I don't know, I could be. You'll have to give me a clue. This is an unexpected twist to the thread. The suspense

Part 36.

September, 1940

R.A.F. INTELLIGENCE

BY A FLIGHT LIEUTENANT, R.A.F.V.R.

"Last night our bombers carried out a successful attack on an important target in Germany" This is a familiar item of news; but behind this bare announcement lies not only the pilots' accounts of their attacks on the enemy, but also a remarkable story of the immense amount of work carried out by the other branches of the Royal Air Force which help to make these raids so successful.

The following account by a Station Intelligence Officer tells something of what goes on behind the scenes in the operations room of a bomber station on such occasions.

OPERATIONS room—known in the Service as "Ops"—guards many secrets. There are maps showing targets to be attacked and photographs of enemy harbours, shipping, factories and fuel and power plants. There is a mass of information collected by the intelligence department from many sources for the' guidance of pilots. Information about enemy anti-aircraft defences, landmarks and landfalls and the position of the vital spots in the various targets.

Take it that the time is noon, or according to the language of the service 12.00 hours. The commanding officer, wing com¬mander and intelligence officers are waiting for the night's targets to come through from higher authority. The commanding officer in this instance is a group captain of long service in India, Iraq, and the Far East. His quiet, unhurried manner contrasts with the keen eagerness of the wing commander, who, at twenty-eight, is probably the youngest of that rank in the R.A.F. He himself has made many raids over enemy country and combines leadership with quick understanding.

Orders arrive. It may be that some aircraft are to attack Berlin, and some to visit the base of the German fleet.

Instantly the word comes through, "Ops" room comes to life. The armourer is told the quantity and types of bombs which will be needed for the operation and soon has got ready his little trains of rubber-tyred trucks carrying the loads across the aerodrome to the aircraft detailed for the job. The meteorological officer, always known as "met", is warned to prepare weather forecasts for the districts to be visited. The medical officer is told "Ops to-night", and he arranges to stand by. The signals officer is also warned. While this is going on detailed maps of the targets have been taken from the files. Routes and distances are discussed.

Aircraft on operations are like trains. They work to schedule. Given a certain distance to fly, aircraft must be off the target at a definite time, to be home before daylight. This necessarily determines the hour of departure.

The intelligence officer turns up his files. Every scrap of information is considered, and a mass of detail is available. It may concern a huge oil refinery producing fuel for the enemy. Its size, output, motive power, its exact position in relation to towns, rivers and roads, the vulnerable points are identified and clearly marked on the maps. Having considered all the details, the station intelligence officer telephones to the group intelligence officer.

"Have you any new gen on the target?" ("Gen" is R.A.F. slang for information.)

Sometimes, fresh details are at hand, gathered from recon¬naissance flights only a few hours old.

Then the intelligence officer considers what landmarks will help. "There's a river bent to the east, and a dog-shaped wood. If they come in from the south-east over the bend, fly straight across the dog head, they can run up easily over the target."

And the commanding officer asks: "What are the ground defences?"

"Pretty hot, sir. No balloon barrage, but anti-aircraft barrage, both light and heavy."

"Searchlights?"

"Quite a lot of them.”

The wing commander breaks in: "I was there a month ago, and I'm sure the thing to do is to come in and attack on the glide."

The armourer telephones: "Incendiaries on all aircraft?" and the answer goes back: "Yes, all of them."

Incendiaries finish the work begun by the heavies. A well-cracked oil tank makes a good fire. Out on the aerodrome, the aircraft are undergoing their last-minute examination. The tons of bombs are housed in the aircraft, securely locked until the moment comes for their release. The hard-working ground staff has seen to everything, but the members of the crew still hang round to see that nothing has been left to chance.

The crew may consist of five men: captain, second pilot, observer-navigator-bomb aimer, wireless operator and rear gunner. All know each other so well that speech is hardly necessary.

Back again in the "Ops" room comes the briefing, and with this the atmosphere takes on a cheerful tension. The time is, say, six o'clock and one by one the crews turn up, salute smartly as they come in, and break into eager questions. They crowd round the big, map-covered table facing the same group that was there in the morning. "Crews all here?" asks the squadron commander and silence follows the affirmative.

The squadron commander reads the operation order.

"Information: the refinery is one of the largest in Germany and is working night and day."

"Intention: to attack and destroy the storage tanks, refining plant and power house." Then follow particulars of time, route, bomb-load and special instructions, after which the wing-commander makes a few observations. "Some of you were with me last time. We made a fair job of it, but they may have been able to patch it up. This time, crack it wide open. Weather: clear visibility but not much moon. Pick up the river; then your flares will show the rest."

The senior intelligence officer takes up the story. "Here are your target maps. Compare them with the quarter-inch map. Your route takes you over the 'duck'. The duck is a neck of land easily recognised as a landfall. Then on to here. There's a barrage here, so look out." He goes over the whole route, pointing out what to avoid and what to make for. Finally the group-captain adds general advice and some special item of information received from Bomber Command. "Take off at eight o'clock. Good hunting." The crews file out. The navigators have still to work out their courses. After that there is just time for an early meal before the take-off.

The "Ops" room is strangely quiet, waiting for the control-officer to telephone "times off". These are passed on to group headquarters, who in turn inform command. On the wall is a huge blackboard marked with the signs of the aircraft.

The telephone rings sharply. "N. for nuts off 19.58, D for Donald 19.59." So they go, and there is silence. Some four hours later signals begin to arrive in code announcing "task completed". Only if he is in extreme need will a pilot break the silence once he has set out on the outward journey.

Time passes slowly. About midnight, the station commander walks down the tarmac to the control-room. One by one the code-letters identifying each aircraft come through. There is an expectant pause. "What's happened to D for Donald?" asks the signal officer. "He'll be all right," replies the wing-com¬mander. "He takes a long time to make up his mind. Hates to leave the target." But there is a hint of anxiety in his voice. On the blackboard in the "Ops" room, times off target are being checked up. The space opposite "D" looks uncomfortably conspicuous. It is still empty when the senior officers return from the control room around two o'clock. Flasks of strong tea appear and everyone waits for the next signal, when the aircraft are nearing home.

The signals officer rushes in: " 'H' has just signalled."

"He'll be here in a few minutes," says the wing commander. "Any news of 'D'?"

"I'm trying group," replies the signals officer. "He may be homing on another station. He's got a fine operator; most likely his wireless has been struck by lightning."

Meanwhile, the intelligence officers have prepared their maps and writing-pads, ready to question the crews. It seems a little hard to interrogate men who have done a long arduous job and come home tired, but it must be done while memory is fresh.

The first crew arrives, blinking in the strong light. The time—between half-past four and half-past five. "Good trip?"

"Pretty good, sir," which proves to be an understatement of complete success under heavy anti-aircraft fire. They glance at the blackboard. "No news of 'D' sir?"

"We think his wireless has packed up."

Nothing more is said, and the intelligence officer starts on the others. "Did you identify your target?"

"Yes, just as you said." So it continues. "What time were you there? Height? One stick of bombs or two? What results? Good. That must have been the power house. . . . Bright blue flashes. Second stick huge explosion, curling thick black smoke. Fire? Good."

After the results of the raid, other questions, the answers to which build up the story of enemy activity, anti-aircraft, shipping, aerodromes.

And then: "Off you go, boys. Good work." All crews pass through the same inquisition.

It is six o'clock when the signals officer rushes in, his face beaming. " 'D' is just landing." "Quite time too," says the wing commander with assumed peevishness. 'D's' wireless had been struck by lightning but he had done a magnificent job, just the same. So the crews go on to the mess, to eat vast quantities of eggs and bacon. Only the intelligence staff is left in the "Ops" room. Sorting out the tales of the night's work, comparing them all, to arrive at a complete picture, with accurate information for the Group Command and those who sit in ultimate authority.

Next morning you may read that our aircraft successfully bombed an oil refinery.


Ground crews eagerly await the return of their aircraft in the early hours of the morning.


Back from a nine hour flight over enemy territory. All this crew are non-commissioned officers.

Part 37.

September, 1940

MINELAYING BY AIR

BY A CANADIAN PILOT OFFICER

"To the many tasks it is already called upon to perform the Royal Air Force since the war has added a new duty—that of laying mines from the air. Many thousands of tons of enemy shipping have already been destroyed by these mines and here is a Canadian officer of the R.A.F., a young 'veteran" with thirty-six operational flights—as well as the D.F.C.—to his credit, to tell you something of the work of the aerial minelayer."

I THINK I had better start by explaining why anyone wants to lay mines by air when submarines and surface minelayers have been doing the job quite effectively for so long. It's not that we've gone into competition with the Navy on the job, it's just that aircraft loaded with mines, can make their way into narrow roadsteads, shallow channels and even into harbours where no surface vessel could possibly penetrate in the face of enemy defences. Within the past five months aircraft of the Bomber Command alone have laid far more than thirty separate minefields. They extend from Norway to the Atlantic ports, and as fast as a way is swept through any of these fields it is built up again where it will do most good—usually in a busy shipping lane or harbour—and in most cases the only way in which those waters could have been reached at all was by air.

Another advantage of minelaying by air is the speed with which a minefield can be sown. On one occasion there was urgent need for a certain enemy channel six hundred miles away from our base to be mined without delay. We received the order at 6 o'clock one evening. By midnight that minefield had been laid.

Accuracy is all important in minelaying. Unless the mine is placed exactly in a shipping channel it will be practically useless. International law, too, quite apart from the risk to our own ships, requires that mines shall be laid only within the limits of clearly defined areas. Actually we're each given a pinpoint on the chart and that pinpoint is where we've got to plant our mines—or bring them back. It calls for dead accurate navigation and the job's got to be done at night under cover of darkness so that the mines can't be too easily located and swept up.

The aircraft we use are Handley-Page Hampden bombers, but instead of the usual bomb load each aircraft carries a single mine. It's a pretty big mine, a long, fat cylinder about ten feet long and weighing close on three-quarters of a ton, and it packs as big a punch in the way of high explosive as a twenty-one-inch naval torpedo. It can do a lot of damage to even the biggest ship—the wrecks of several ten thousand ton supply ships which can still be seen in the Baltic are evidence of that.

The mine is stowed away inside the bomb compartment and enclosed by folding doors in the underside of the fuselage. There's a parachute attached to the mine and as the bomb doors are opened and the mine falls clear, this parachute automatically opens. It checks the rate of fall so that the mechanism of the mine won't be damaged by too violent a contact with the water. The mine doesn't make much of a splash as it goes in and it drags its parachute down after it to the sea bottom, where it stays put until a ship passes overhead and sets it in action.

Compared with a bombing raid a minelaying trip, of course, is a bit tame from the crew's point of view—almost a rest cure in fact. Being over the water most of the time you don't often get such a pasting from the ground defences as you do on a bombing raid. On the other hand, in a bombing show you do see some results for your money, whereas on a minelaying job it's a delayed-action result and you can only hope that the mine you've brought out and planted with such care will bag the biggest ship left in the German Navy. Still, the job has its compensations. For one thing, we realise how important the work really is. For another, we're given a couple of consolation prizes each trip in the form of two high explosive bombs. After we've planted our mines we can use these on any enemy ships that attack us. We don't often bring these bombs back.

When we first started minelaying our only means of retaliation were our machine-guns, and I remember one occasion in the Great Belt when we sighted an enemy destroyer a few moments after we had dropped our mine. We'd have given a lot for a couple of bombs just then but as we hadn't got them we dived down almost to mast height and shot up the destroyer with every gun we had. Then the destroyer did a bit of shooting up on its own account and I reckon we were lucky to have got away with only one hole in the wings.

Mostly though, minelaying is a much more unobtrusive and restrained affair and the less notice we attract in the process the better we like it. We're allowed to use parachute flares, if we want to, to pick up landmarks, but so far I haven't needed them. I've a grand crew and in the dozen or so minelaying shows we've done together we've usually been able to pinpoint our position fairly near to the minefield. From then onwards it's just a matter of working our way to the particular channel or harbour we want and, having discovered it, to find the exact pinpoint in that channel where our mine is to be laid. At other times, particularly if visibility is bad or the clouds very low, we may be quite a while searching for our pinpoint. Once when the clouds were down to five hundred feet we spent an hour over the Kiel estuary, mostly doing steep turns up and down the stretch of water until at last we spotted the particular square yard of estuary we were looking for.

We've been to Kiel several times. The first time I went mine-laying at Kiel I found it sooner than I had intended. I was feeling my way along the coast after coming out of cloud when I spotted a fjord which I knew was somewhere near the part of the coast we wanted. I turned and flew up it to get my bearings and before I really knew where I was I found myself right over the city of Kiel itself, only 800 feet up and with every gun in the place blazing off at us. I really thought we'd bought it that time—the barrage was simply terrific. I turned right about, put the nose of the machine down and we fairly shot back down that fjord. Then, when things had quietened down a bit, we came back, found our pinpoint in the estuary and laid our mine in the right place.

When we first began minelaying by air secrecy, of course, was of vital importance. Even a mention of the word "minelaying" was forbidden, and, instead it was always referred to in official orders by a code word. The whole secret was well kept and some thousands of tons of shipping were lost before the enemy realised that the mines which sank them had arrived by air. That caution is still second nature with most of us.


Handley Page Hampdens.


The cockpit of a Hampden Bomber.